The Death House 34

Shalo

I am sitting down on a balcony, watching two men hack each other to pieces, while drinking raktajino with the woman I want to kill. I suppose, in First City terms, this makes it a normal day.

One of the warriors falls to the floor of the challenge ring. Melani D'ian makes a tutting noise, and pushes a small pile of coins across the table to me with one impeccably manicured finger. "That is the second time I have lost money on a warrior of the House of Klagroth," she says. "I must have words with their trainer, sometime.... However. One more piece of good fortune on which to congratulate you, General."

"Those are always welcome," I say, and sip my raktajino. "Few as they are."

"You are back in favour with the High Council, you have thwarted a plot against the Empire...."

"We did not capture Kalevar Thrang."

D'ian smiles. "That is your good fortune too, I think. If you had risen too high in J'mpok's esteem, I would have had to take... certain measures. As things stand, you and I can continue to be useful to each other." She must catch my sour look, since she adds, "There is no need for us to like each other, General."

"That is fortunate," I say. Then I sigh. "So. How do matters stand, overall?"

"Oh," says D'ian, "the... tidying-up... is proceeding. It could have gone better, of course. The problem is, simply revealing that there were blackmail files on some High Councillors... made Imperial Intelligence very insistent about knowing what they were. So we had to hand over that data." Though if she thinks I believe she handed over all that data.... Well. Half of it probably came from dealings with the Syndicate already. "And then J'mpok became tiresomely traditional about executing the dishonoured Councillors...."

"I take it you dissuaded him?"

"K'men and I appealed to his practicality. In the interests of... continuity of government. So soon after the Iconian incident, it would never do to have another massacre of the High Council. So, certain Councillors live to fight another day."

And thus the Chancellor tightens his grip on the Council... but the blackmailed Councillors will know it, will resent it. J'mpok and K'men will have to tread carefully, even while they command obedience.... Well. It is the game of Klingon politics, and both of them have been playing it long enough to be masters.

"What of the other... details?" I ask. "The Letheans, and the Kobali?"

"Yes," says D'ian thoughtfully, "the Kobali. The Kobali government has disclaimed all responsibility for this General Jhey'quar; they claim he was a rogue officer, leader of a discredited radical movement which does not truly represent Kobali interests or intentions. We have, of course, no proof that they are lying...."

"Were their lips moving?" I ask. "That is generally a reliable sign."

D'ian laughs. "No actual proof. And we really cannot afford to meddle any further in Delta Quadrant politics, not just now. But this disclaimer means they have refused any sort of compensation to the Letheans for their lost colony... they will take the late colonists and integrate them into Kobali society, that is all. Relations between the Letheans and the Kobali, then, have... cooled, rather. To the point that it is a very good thing that they live at opposite ends of the galaxy."

"One more item on Thrang's account, then," I say. "Along with the situation on 54 Eridani V... do we have any idea how that will progress, now?"

"Well," says D'ian, "the civil war started by Thrang's proclamation appears to be in full swing. Once the shooting has died down, the Federation and the Empire will send in a joint peace-keeping and reconstruction force. We still hold their Grand Admiral, and by their standards he is a reasonable man... he will probably be adequate as an interim head of state. In the meantime, however, the Empire cannot intervene without provoking further hostility, and the Federation, of course, quotes its wretched Prime Directive and sits on its hands. Once the survivors start appealing for humanitarian aid, then we can move."

Until then - chaos and war. "Thrang's plans cost a lot of lives," I observe. "More, even, than yours."

"Mine? My dear General, I assure you, I am positively parsimonious with the lives I spend. One cannot buy an empire at too high a cost... or it will not be worth having. Do you not agree?"

"Some people's idea of a small cost," I say, "may be ruinous, to others."

"True," says D'ian. "And a point well worth considering, if you plan to rise in the Syndicate."

"I have no plans in that direction," I assure her firmly.

"Oh, you must put aside this prejudice!" She shakes her head. "The Syndicate needs competent operatives, and you are competent."

"I also desire your death."

"Well, that is true of most of my subordinates. For that matter, do you not recall how I reached my current position? I assure you -" her brilliant eyes are icy and stern "- I never forget."

I believe her. This woman knows what she has bought, and what she has paid for it - in blood, death and destruction. Melani D'ian's grip on the Orion people remains, I think, unbreakable.

For the moment, at least.

"I will concede this much," I say. "I would rather work with you, than with Kalevar Thrang."

"Oh," says D'ian with a sniff, "I am sure he thinks he would be ideal as head of the Syndicate.... That man has ambitions."

"Obviously," I say.

"And resources. He spirited himself away from 54 Eridani, and nobody seems to know where he might have gone. He is irritating." D'ian's face turns pensive for a moment. "I think we shall all sleep a little easier, once we have dealt with Kalevar Thrang."

The Death House 33

Rrueo

I close the helmet of the Sentinel suit, and R'js voice whisper-rasps in my ears, "I hope you know what you are doing."

"Rrueo does. Rrueo is the expert on Delta Quadrant ships, after all." In as much as we have any experts... well, at least I have shot at several of them. I step into the airlock, close the inner door, wait as the chamber is evacuated, then open the outer door. "Rrueo is ready," I announce.

"Adjusting flight angle now," says K'Rokok's voice. "Trajectory locked and set. Countdown should be on your helmet visor now, sir."

It is. The numbers are worryingly low. Already, I am regretting this decision, but it is far too late to back out now. "Patch Rrueo through to transmissions from the Knobos," I say.

The next voice to fill my ears is Shalo's; she is talking - well, speechifying - to the Imperials. "… cannot guarantee any negotiating position on behalf of the Klingon Empire," she is saying. "However, we are not necessarily hostile, provided that cooperation is given. We have requested your forces to clear the battle zone; we now request those ships which have not complied... to submit to detailed sensor scans for potential hostiles, including high-intensity tachyon scans -"

And that is my cue. I gather my muscles, take hold of the edges of the airlock opening. The squat shape of the Nihydron ship is sweeping into my field of vision. The countdown on my visor reaches zero.

And I scream, and I leap.

I leave the artificial gravity field of the Skaldak, and I am flying free in space, hurtling towards the Nihydron destroyer. So far, so good. K'Rokok has been putting Skaldak through a series of course changes, which have coincidentally brought her, for a few moments, into close range and matching velocity with Thrang's ship - at least, it should look like coincidence. It may pass as equally coincidental when Shalo's tachyon scan momentarily reaches a very high intensity level, enough to destabilize the Nihydron's shields.

Thrang, of course, will not believe in such coincidences. But we have just saved the homeworld of the Grand Imperium, and he may find it hard to convince his crews that we are, nonetheless, the enemy. In any case, it is not as though we are launching an obvious attack on him. Yet.

Just one lone figure, flying through space. One Ferasan - I will admit it to myself, one very nervous Ferasan - in a spacesuit, carrying a single spatial charge.

Silent stars watch me as I drop across the kilometres that separate Skaldak from the Nihydron ship. I can risk only the slightest of corrective burns with my suit's thrusters; even like this, I risk detection - despite the heavy space suit, I feel nakedly exposed.

The Nihydron ship expands towards me, growing in my visor from a child's plaything to... what it is, a massive and very effective military starship. I check my speed; I must risk the thrusters, to decelerate, or I will be smashed against that armoured hull -

I turn, fire the thrusters, wait with my heart hammering -

And I am down; I feel the shock in my pads as my boots make contact. Anyone on the other side of that hull... actually, how much will they have heard, through the layered composite armour? I do not know. I must proceed, then, on the assumption that I have very little time.

Outside the hull, the ship's artificial gravity field is weak, patchy and inconsistent - more of an annoyance than anything else. I scramble from handhold to handhold across the curving armour, towards the base of one projecting pylon, and the spot I need to reach.

Oh, we could simply blast this ship out of space - it is no match for the three of us. But presenting the High Council with a large bag of ashes, and saying Thrang might be somewhere among them... is not an elegant solution. We need to catch him alive, or at least see him dead.

So I am scrambling for the base of the pylon, and then for a point between it and its mate on the other side of the ship. Assuming that I am remembering correctly what little I know about Nihydron ship architecture -

I miss a handhold, flail in empty space, must risk another burst on thrusters to get me back into position.

No one has noticed me yet, it seems. Such luck cannot last long. I reach the place. I spot the rounded, shallow dome between the two pylons, and permit myself a little purr. Then I swing the spatial charge into place and set it.

And now, I have a tight deadline. I swarm across the underside of the destroyer, looking for what I know is there... these ships are capable of emergency landings, there are access hatches and airlocks on the underside....

I reach one such hatch. It is secured, but I have specialist tools that break the lock in seconds. Too many seconds, though. As I swing it open, a shiver runs through the vessel, and my shadow is cast on the hatch cover before me - stark black as if etched on the metal by the white light behind me.

The spatial charge was correctly placed; it has breached the destroyer's main plasma manifold, and now a column of brilliant white flame is spouting from the breach. It is easily repaired, given time and opportunity - but, for the moment, the ship's main power is offline, its weapons and defensive systems crippled.

I pull myself up through the hatchway, seal it behind me. Air hisses around me. I open the airlock's inner door. I am in a deserted maintenance run at the lowest level of the ship. No one is yet about - that is good enough.

I touch my wrist comm, engage my transporter buffer. It is a weird feeling, to have my suit disappear around me and be replaced by the segments of my Honor Guard armour - but the big disruptor pulsewave is a comforting weight, now, and the transporter enhancers are ready at hand. I place them on the deck, activate them, and touch the comm again.

"Rrueo here. Boarding parties to beam over now."

And the dimness of the maintenance run is filled with red light, that darkens and resolves itself into Klingon warriors. I stand straight and address them.

"You have your assigned targets. Life support. Main engineering. Computer core. Auxiliary control. Strike team one, with Rrueo, to the bridge, now!"

They move - with discipline, and with savage smiles on their faces. Klingon warriors. The play-actors of the Grand Imperium are about to get a rude awakening to the realities of combat. We are heavily outnumbered by this ship's crew, of course - and it must contain at least a cadre of Thrang's own people, who we must assume are competent - but, even so, I am confident that my warriors will take their objectives.

I raise the wrist comm to my mouth again as my team falls in behind me. "Rrueo to Skaldak. Commence transporter interdiction now." And I flick another switch, that converts the transporter enhancers to transporter jammers.

"General Bl'k' promised to send support -" K'Rokok begins.

"And she will keep her word. She always does. Now, move."

And we move. Myself, K'Rokok, Oschmann... the two Gorn, Toriash and Shegithem... the Lissepian medic Siowxayer... and the Breen renegade who calls himself Gal the Recusant. It is not a force that any sane person would confront, but I do not know how much sanity to expect from the Grand Imperium. The corridors and slanting ramps of the Nihydron ship are... confusing. I have a deck plan on my tricorder, and I try to look, as far as possible, as if I know where I am going.

We come upon a group of technicians - humans, almost certainly Imperials. Sensibly, they flee. We round a corner, and charge up another ramp - and face our first active opposition. An armoured figure in a demon-masked helmet: one of the Imperium's supposed warriors - they call them the samurai-praetorians. He roars a challenge and charges us with his absurd power sword raised above his head.

Seven disruptor bolts slam into his midriff, and he falls to the deck in several pieces. K'Rokok laughs.

"They are idiots," I say. "But they may be lucky idiots. Stay alert." And we press on. Intruder alarms are, belatedly, starting to sound.

The Nihydron corridors are bare, functional - but this ship is now part of the Grand Imperial navy, and signs of this become apparent as we move onwards. There are decorative wall hangings, gaudy armorial bearings, other indications that we are moving into the higher-status regions of the vessel.

Around a corner, I hear a voice - and I stop in my tracks, astonished. The voice and the mind-tone behind it are familiar.

"- all I'm sayin' is, a tour of the flagship is one thing, but it's possible to have a bit too much bally excitement along the way, what? So when can I expect all this damn noise to quieten down, so I can catch a shuttle back to civilization - hello? Hello?" The baron swears. "Cut me off, did he? Damn impertinence."

He steps around the corner, and his jaw drops. He is unarmed, in civilian clothing, and I notice some bruises. "Lady Cynthia!" he says to Oschmann, and then he blinks as my presence registers. "You," he says, "you're - you're Lady Cynthia's pet -"

"Oh, no," I say, "that would be you." And I slam my fist hard into his stomach. He folds up, choking. There is a Jeffries tube in the opposite wall; I stuff him through the opening, and listen to the bumps and gasps as he tumbles down it.

Onwards. Aristocratic guest quarters; we must be close now. K'Rokok is consulting his tricorder. "The Nuru-Or is manoeuvring for docking," he says, with a frown. "But she is too far forward - she has missed the main airlock -"

I say nothing. I reach out and take a firm hold on a projecting stanchion.

As a result, I am the only one to keep my feet when the blast from the breaching charge runs through the deckplates. "General Bl'k' has a habit of making her own entrances," I tell the rest of my team as they scramble to right themselves. "That was close at hand - we will link up with her, now."

It is easy enough to hear where R'j and her boarding party have entered the ship. The gunfire has died down by the time we arrive, though, and R'j is stalking imperiously along the corridors with a gaggle of heavily armed Klingons and Gorn behind her. As she draws level with a side door, her arm shoots out and the pistol in her hand cracks. A samurai-praetorian falls out of the doorway, with a smoking hole in the middle of his demon mask. "S-s-s-s-s," says R'j. "Those people are annoying."

My wrist comm buzzes for attention; I raise it to my mouth. "Report."

"Commander Vesas here. As you ordered, auxiliary control and the computer core are now secure. We have tapped the core and have control of ship's functions."

"Excellent. Cancel their security. Lock all interior doors in the open position." I grin at R'j. "Nothing bars our way to the bridge. Shall we?"

She smiles back. "Lead on."

And we move, loping up the last ramp, along the last corridor. Someone has erected a barricade, a clumsy thing of piled-up furniture. I trigger the pulsewave's grenade launcher, and a photonic blast knocks it away.

I charge onto the bridge, snarling, the pulsewave sending out blast after blast of sick green disruptor light. Beside me, the twin beams of R'j's pistols stab through the air with surgical precision. Half the bridge crew are down before they even have a chance to surrender.

The command chair is big, throne-like, its high back turned towards me. I leap forwards and spin it around, the barrel of my pulsewave pointing straight at the occupant's head.

It is not Thrang. It is an older human male, dressed in an over-decorated Imperial uniform. I hiss in disappointment, and aim my tricorder at him. It is definitely not Thrang. We have his genetic profile, and the tricorder scan confirms it. This is... someone else.

"S-s-s-s-s," says R'j. "The Grand Admiral with all the other grand titles. Ter Horst, that was the name, yes?"

The man glares at us, hopeless but defiant. "I am the Grand Admiral," he says, "and I command the flagship in battle. The Emperor gave me this ship -"

"All very well," I snarl at him, "but it is your Emperor we want. Where is he? Where is Kalevar Thrang?"

And a voice from behind me says, "I'm not in just now."

---

I whirl. The face on the main viewscreen is definitely Kalevar Thrang's. The smugness alone would confirm it.

"If you're watching this recording," he continues, "then things haven't gone to plan. I suppose it's my own fault, really - I keep forgetting that I'm not dealing with reasonable people. Reasonable people would keep their heads down when they're wanted by the High Council. Or they'd have the sense to stick to an eminently sensible arrangement which benefits everyone, aside from a few Kobali newborns with psychological issues. Seriously. You know the old saying about eggs and omelettes, don't you?"

He positively pouts in disappointment. "Anyway. As I'm speaking, well, I've just heard what's happened aboard Jhey'quar's ship. If you're looking for Sarv, by the way, don't bother, he's past anyone's concern by now. I'll give you that for nothing. As a gesture of goodwill, if you like." His tone brightens. "Anyway, now Sarv's failed and Jhey'quar's gone rogue, well, there's no way even I can pick up all the pieces of this little scheme. So, well, it's time to cut my losses. I don't think I'd like being the emperor of just one silly planet, anyway, so my last act as Grand Emperor is to abdicate and proclaim the republic of 54 Eridani V." He raises one clenched fist over his head. "Power to the people! - Bye now."

I exchange baffled glares with R'j, as the screen freezes on Thrang's odiously smiling face.

Somehow, we both manage not to shoot it.

The Death House 32

R'j

Nuru-Or comes screaming into 54 Eridani space, into the blasting and glare of an all-out war.

Behind me, Skaldak and Knobos crash out of subspace, weapons hot. I am comforted. I am not greatly comforted, as it is necessary to take Thrang, or at least confirm his death, and the confusion of a space battle is not the best place to do that.

"S-s-s-s-s. What is the tactical situation?" I ask.

"The Grand Imperial forces are fighting the Kobali cruiser," says Laska. The flash of a core breach illuminates the screen. "And losing," she adds.

"We tentatively identified that Nihydron ship as Thrang's, yes?"

"Yes. It seems to be acting as flagship for the Imperials - which would make sense, if it is Thrang's ship and he is now Emperor. It is the only vessel which can even put up a fight against the Kobali."

Lights are flashing on the comms console. I hit it, and Rrueo's and Shalo's faces appear on the small screen. "What exactly is happening?" I ask.

"Thrang's tools appear to be fighting amongst themselves," says Shalo. "We should wait for the dust to settle, then pick through the wreckage, I think."

"Rrueo disagrees." The Ferasan's face is grim. "Rrueo has performed sensor scans. There is a disturbing factor. The Kobali ship is loaded with complex organics. Alpha-furanizol. For Rrueo to be able to detect the compound, at this range and in this much sensor noise, there must be a very great deal of it."

"S-s-s-s-s. Why would the Kobali ship be carrying huge quantities of poison -?" The answer comes as soon as I frame the question. "To make more Kobali. Indeed, to mass produce more Kobali."

"Thrang would not allow his empire to be destroyed -" Shalo begins.

"Thrang now knows Sarv has failed him," I interrupt her. "Perhaps he now seeks a new Kobali power base. In any case -"

"Mass murder of civilians," says Rrueo. "Rrueo is not often idealistic, but... the Empire is supposed to stand for something, after all."

"And," says Shalo, "if we defend the Grand Imperials, they may be more accommodating later, when we ask for the head of their new Emperor.... Very well. Let us do the decent and proper thing." She laughs. "At least it will be a novelty."

"Battle cloak," I order, and, "Threat assessment."

"Heavily modified Kobali Samsar-class cruiser," says Laska. "Reman style shields and deflector, Vaadwaur polaron armament... I do not recognize the engine readings, they may have been individually customized by Thrang."

"Complex hybrid technologies," I muse, while I sketch out a battle plan on the tac console. "The sort of thing Starfleet's Experimental Engineering Division likes to play with. S-s-s-s-s. Perhaps we should send them any remaining usable fragments." Rrueo and Shalo are signalling approval of the tactical plan. "Range?"

"Three thousand kellicams and closing rapidly."

"Steer two six mark two. On my order, hard about." The Grand Imperium's navy is being slowly swatted away, antique ships tumbling in flame across the sky. The Nihydron ship is dealing out a reasonable amount of damage, but not enough to trouble those high-powered Reman-designed shields... and the Nihydron itself is taking polaron fire, and suffering.

"Skaldak is - in position. Knobos is - approaching position. All-bands hail from - General Shalo."

"Let us hear it, at least."

Shalo's face comes up on the main screen. "I am General Shalo of the House of Sinoom," she announces, "personal emissary of the Chancellor and the High Council of the Klingon Empire. Grand Imperium ships, clear this area, now. To the commander of the Kobali vessel approaching 54 Eridani V - power down your drives, shields and weapons, and eject your warp core, now, as a signal of unconditional surrender. No further warnings will be given." And she looks, very definitely, as though she means it.

I check the tac display. The Samsar is still boring straight in for the planet, blasting defensive satellites and the occasional quixotic Imperial relic out of its path as it goes. The Nihydron ship is swinging around for another pass at the Samsar's port shields. Whoever is handling that ship has some talent, but it will not be enough.

A new voice sounds on the comms channels. "This is General Jhey'quar. We do not take orders from the High Council, or from Kalevar Thrang, or from any source but our own destiny. This is not your fight, Orion. Do not involve yourself." So. We can be reasonably certain that Kalevar Thrang is not on that ship.

And mine are in position. "Hard about, three five five mark zero. Lock torpedoes. Sensors, stand ready. All cannons to rapid fire. Commence attack run."

Nuru-Or swings sharply around, aiming herself directly at the oncoming Samsar. From this angle, the ship's deflector and sensor grid, with armour above and below, and the two sharp prongs at each side, looks like the toothy maw of some hungry predator. On the screen, it expands towards us. I count off the range in my head.

"Fire torpedoes." Balls of green-hot burning light spout from our launchers. "Decloak and open fire!"

Nuru-Or shimmers into visibility to launch a ghostly spray of antiproton bolts which make the Kobali ship's forward screens flare and waver. Knobos has come about, has deployed fighters and support platforms, is directing withering fire onto the Kobali's flank. Skaldak is hanging back. It must irk Rrueo, but she is where I need her to be.

The grin of the Samsar is suddenly disfigured by bursts of flame as our bolts pierce its failing shields... but the damage is merely superficial, as yet, and the Kobali ship shows as much, with a sudden barrage of polaron fire. Our own shields flare in response, and there is a flash-bang on the bridge as a conduit overloads. "Steady," I hiss.

Nuru-Or hurtles forward into the hail of fire, guns spitting out bolt after bolt... and as we slant upwards, over the frowning brow of the Samsar, I order, "Vent warp plasma now!"

Charged particles spill from our rear vents, enveloping the Samsar in an auroral fog. Through it, bolts of antiprotons and polarons flash. We are running an evasion pattern, but the Kobali gunners are good; our shields are weakening, the ship is rocking from impacts, and the damage control board is... disheartening. I can only hope that Laska, on the science console, is getting what we need -

We slam past the tall fin at the rear of the Samsar's hull, trailing warp plasma and fire. "Hard about!" I order. Shields are lower than I would like -

A weak burst of phaser fire comes from somewhere on our starboard quarter. The Pioneer-class ship, the one we encountered on our first visit to this system. It is approaching the Samsar in an act of futile defiance. Its phasers barely irritate the big ship's shields - but they elicit a polaron barrage in reply. Flaming craters erupt on the Pioneer's forward saucer; the fragile domes of the Bussard collectors shatter at once. The Pioneer yaws violently; another polaron barrage rips away a nacelle and opens the engineering hull to space.

Considerate of them to die on our behalf. "Targeting solution is locked," Laska reports.

"Take out their shield emitters! All cannons rapid fire!"

Kobali. They are very protective of their second lives. That cruiser is layered about with protective measures, with armour and reactive nanites and regenerative integrity fields... to hurt it seriously, we must strike, not just hard, but accurately, overwhelming its shields at precision points, damaging the emitters to take the shields offline - temporarily, until repairs are made, but I do not propose to allow them time to make repairs....

Nuru-Or's cannons roar, following the precise guidelines laid down by Laska's sensor suite, and the eldritch glow of the Reman-designed shields flickers and fades.

"Now!" I yell over the comms channels. The Samsar is laying down a punishing barrage of polaron fire in order to protect itself - my ship is shaking, my shields are in tatters, and the lurid light of exploding conduits is flooding the bridge. Distractions. I ignore them.

My ship hurtles back towards the Kobali, weapons blazing. The cruiser's thick, slab-sided armoured flanks begin to disintegrate under the barrage. I am not alone in my attack. Knobos is closing in on the starboard flank, beam arrays clawing the hull armour into jagged ruins of blazing metal. There are organic shapes on the sensors, fleetingly - Kobali, blasted into space on torrents of escaping air, to die a very final second death.

Skaldak drops neatly into position, her forward weapons ablaze, her disruptor autocannon raking the Samsar's long shape, opening up the cruiser's spine.

Auxiliaries are launching - shuttles, registering cargoes of alpha-furanizol. Shalo's To'Duj fighters peel off from their attack runs to intercept. The Kobali shuttles are outmatched; they shatter in bursts of poison and flame.

Rrueo's attack has torn open a huge trench along the Samsar's upper hull. "Two four seven mark three seven two!" I shout, and Nuru-Or wheels about and points her prow directly at the monstrous wound. "Fire!"

Plasma torpedoes roar from our launchers, unimpeded by shields, to drive through the torn gaps in the hull armour and deep into the bowels of the enemy ship.

The Samsar lurches and heaves, flames spewing from its wounded hull. Nuru-Or comes about and screams in for another attack run - but there is no need; the polaron fire is slackening and failing, and the battered hull is visibly deforming as a series of explosions runs through the interior. My ship races down the length of the enemy vessel... and flies free into empty space, just as the cruiser's warp core goes, and the ship dissolves into a white-hot spray of debris. Whatever destiny Jhey'quar had in mind, he goes to face it alone, now.

My damage control board makes for sad reading, but the worst is over now - or it would be, if there were not a message light blinking on the console. I rattle out the brief version of the Ss'kra-h'ji sutra, which consoles those whose work is never done. Then I accept the call.

"One down," says Rrueo. "One to go."

"The Nihydron?" I suppose it cannot be avoided.

"Thrang's flagship," says Rrueo, and licks her fangs. "Rrueo has a plan."

The Death House 31

Jhey'quar strode onto the Ostigon's bridge, his heavy face a mask of disapproval. "What is the situation?" he demanded.

"Klingon raptor inbound," the sensor officer reported. "Displaying High Council identification... it seems to be a fast courier ship, lightly armed. The identification matches Councillor Sarv, and there is a sub-channel transponder which corresponds to -"

"Thrang's man on the High Council," Jhey'quar interrupted. "Well. We will hear him, and we will deal with him. Are the main preparations well in hand?"

A hush fell across the bridge. "We cannot rely on Thrang," said Jhey'quar. "We must act on our own behalf. We begin here. What is our status?"

In a small voice, an aide said, "Six shuttles fully loaded. Eighteen more being prepared. We are at the limits of our replication capacity -"

"How much in each shuttle?"

"Twenty tons of the alpha-furanizol compound. With the dispersers, enough to fill sixteen cubic kilometres with a lethal dose. There will be inefficiencies, local variations in density -"

"No doubt. But it is sufficient." Jhey'quar's gaze swept the bridge. "This is why we are here. Why we have taken up the banner, why we are no longer restricted by the homeworld's government. We do not wait patiently for other species's leavings. From now on, we take. Is that clearly understood?"

There was a muted chorus of assent. Jhey'quar nodded, apparently satisfied. He turned to the communications officer. "Hail that raptor."

It took only a few moments before Sarv's face appeared on the screen. "I need Thrang," he said. "I need to speak to Thrang, now. Things have - not gone according to plan." The Klingon's face was sweaty and desperate, Jhey'quar noticed.

"Thrang is not here," he said. "But I know where he is - beam aboard, and we will discuss what help I can give you."

"It is urgent. There are hostile forces in pursuit of me, now. I have a fast ship, but I cannot guarantee they will not find me here -"

"Send your ship away. Lay a false trail. You will be safe from your pursuers aboard the Ostigon."

Sarv gulped. "It is - a sound idea. Very well. I will go now to the transporter room." The screen went blank.

"As will I," said Jhey'quar, as if to himself. He gestured to two of the bridge security guards. "You two. With me."

---

In the transporter room, a column of light glowed and sparkled and resolved itself into Sarv. The Klingon stepped off the pad. "Very good," he said. "Now. We must go directly to Thrang, and discuss - his remaining options. His current plan has failed. We must...." His voice trailed off. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Take him." Jhey'quar gestured to the guards, who rushed forward and seized Sarv by both arms. Astonished, the former High Councillor made no effort to defend himself. "What - what is this?" he asked.

"Thrang's plan has failed. More exactly, it has failed us. He has abused our newborns, and he has not made good on his promises. Do you know what he promised us, Sarv?"

"He -" Sarv shook his head. "A foothold. A Kobali colony in the Beta Quadrant - bodies, to serve your needs -"

"More than a foothold, Sarv." Jhey'quar advanced with a heavy, measured tread. A hypospray was in his right hand. "He promised us a resurgence of the Kobali. A thousand offspring, Sarv, for each one of us. That is what he promised, and what we will have." He raised the hypospray. "Starting here."

"No!" Sarv shrieked. He struggled, uselessly, against the iron grip of the guards.

Jhey'quar pressed the hypospray against the screaming Klingon's neck. "Sleep now," he said. "You will awaken as one of us. It will be better." His voice hardened as he spoke to the guards. "Take him to medbay. Administer the virus. Then, prepare. There will be battle."

---

The Grand Admiral, Johan ter Horst, awoke to the screaming of alarm klaxons. He slapped at the intercom panel, shouted "Report!" even as he struggled into his uniform tunic.

"The alien ship has left the orbit of the sixth planet," a voice told him. "It is approaching the Imperial perimeter defences. Our sensor platforms tell us its shields are raised and its weapons hot."

Ter Horst swore. "Rally the fleet! And inform the Emperor! If this is part of his plan -" He left the thought, and the sentence, unfinished as he raced out of his quarters and headed for the bridge.

The bridge was already at alert status, the tac display showing the Imperial forces - and the alien ship. Ter Horst eyed its icon narrowly. The ship played some part in the new Emperor's schemes - he did not know what - but he had assessed it as best he was able. It was large, long, possibly slower and more unwieldy than Thrang's destroyer... but heavily armoured and armed, he was sure of that.

"If it is hostile," he muttered, "this will be a challenge."

"All battle squadrons are at readiness. We have reports on ground defences from... seventy sectors," his exec reported.

Fourteen holes left in the planet's anti-spacecraft defences.... Ter Horst shook his head sadly. "We will have to stop it in space," he said. "Fortunately, it is only a single target.... Strategy Zulu One. Engage, englobe, destroy with continual harassing fire. Assuming it is confirmed hostile. Where is my link to the Emperor?"

"Trying to reach him, sir." The comms officer started. "One moment. General hail from the alien."

Ter Horst nodded. "On screen."

The grey mottled face that appeared on the screen... did nothing to calm the Grand Admiral's nerves. "Attention. This is General Jhey'quar aboard the Kobali cruiser Ostigon. Your world is now forfeit. You are advised, most strongly, to offer no resistance. You will lay down your arms, and prepare to... embrace your new destiny."

The Death House 30

Shalo

"You." The serjeant-at-arms puffs out his chest and glowers at me. "You three, you are all wanted by the High Council -"

"And we are here, now, to present ourselves to the High Council," I say with hauteur.

"You are proscribed! You are wanted criminals! You dare to approach the Great Hall in this manner?" He is a very picture of outraged Klingon officialdom.

"The High Council wishes us to account for ourselves, and we have urgent information for the High Council. It is in everyone's interests if we enter, immediately."

A breakneck flight from 54 Eridani to Qo'noS, using transwarp gates and every illicit means Melani D'ian could arrange to smooth our way... and now the last obstacle is this pompous official, barring our way to the Great Hall.

"I will summon the Yan-Isleth! You shall not go before the High Council, unless it is in chains! I will -"

There is a pulse of light in the air, and a force plucks the serjeant-at-arms off his feet and hurls him against the wall. He falls in a stunned heap.

I turn and direct a quelling stare at R'j. She shrugs. "Reasoning with him was getting you nowhere. And I believe we have a deadline."

"True." I step over the prone body and push open the door.

D'ian is on the other side, and she raises a finger to her lips. I look past her, at the Great Hall. J'mpok sits slumped and brooding on his seat; Sarv has the floor, and across the hall, the Lethean envoy glowers at him. A data sheet is showing on the holo-display; the population figures for the moon of 54 Eridani VI. They make grim reading, if you are a Lethean.

"Try not to attract attention," says D'ian, "for the moment. I have briefed the Lethean, but not J'mpok. I think it is best to have his authentic reaction."

The three of us sidle into the Great Hall, as inconspicuously as we can manage. It is not hard; the Lethean is speaking.

"So this," he says, "is the High Council's honour. This. The extermination of a colony of our people, to be resurrected as Kobali, as part of an underhand arrangement with that government -"

"The extermination was none of our doing!" snarls Sarv.

"That remains to be proved," the Lethean retorts. "And even so, what can the Kobali offer the Empire? A minor power, half the galaxy away! Lethean friendship towards the Empire has been steadfast, up till now... does the Councillor wish to throw that away, for the sake of a dubious Kobali alliance?"

"Not just Kobali!" shouts Sarv. "They will be our partners in that system - and will oversee our alliance with the humans!"

There is a shocked murmur among some of the Council - the ones Sarv has not already primed for this. J'mpok stirs on his seat, but does not speak.

"Yes!" Sarv crows. "The humans! A human colony, at first, but when Earth hears of this, when the warrior humans learn of a firm alliance with our people - they will rise up! They will throw off the shackles of the Federation pacifists! They will take back their birthright of combat and blood! Two great warrior peoples of the quadrant will unite, and nothing will be impossible for them!"

It is, I suppose, possible he believes this himself.

J'mpok speaks at last. "And at what cost will we buy this human alliance, Councillor?"

"Only a small one," says Sarv. "Only the granting of a title - a title that is meaningful, true, but one whose actual effectiveness is in name only. The one called Kahless filled the role of Emperor well - he inspired our warriors in battle, he upheld the great traditions of the Empire, and at the last he died as a warrior should! But his throne is now vacant. What Klingon can claim it? Would you dare, Chancellor?"

"I am not worthy," says J'mpok. "Who is?"

"What use is a throne if it is empty?" demands Sarv. "Someone must fill it - and the Grand Imperium has an Emperor. I say, in token of our grand alliance, we will seat him upon the throne! This honourable Council will attend to the details of administration - but the symbolic might, the name and title, will be borne by our new ally!"

It is worrying how little protest and outcry there is at this. Sarv has evidently prepared his puppets well.

"We shall let the new Emperor have all official pomp and splendour," says Sarv. "And how the humans will smile! They will think they have conquered us - but we, we will know that we have won! To take our old enemies and make them Klingon - is it not the greatest of victories?"

He swaggers across the floor of the Hall, and picks up a datapad. "The Council will be pleased to vote on these preliminaries," he says. "Matters of administrative trivia - the official entitlements, a formal treaty, a nominal amnesty for any offences committed against the Empire -"

D'ian nudges me, but I do not need her urging to spot the right moment. "Let us ensure that all relevant data is brought before the High Council," I declaim. "What is the name of our Emperor-to-be?"

Sarv stares at me. "You -" he begins.

"I have been called to account for myself before this honourable Council. Well, here I am. And I have information more current than Councillor Sarv's. We have obtained much data from the records of the late Councillors T'Khal and Dillan." With each word, I advance into the hall, until I am in the open, facing Sarv. I do not look at him; I let my smile play, like a disruptor bolt, across the ranks of Councillors.

And I see the quicker ones react, and my smile broadens. Yes. You know, now, that the blackmail files assembled by Thrang's minions are now in our hands. You know who owns you now.

"The name, Councillor Sarv," I repeat. "Give us the name."

"I -" He takes a step back. "The Grand Emperor is Hadrian VII of the House of Corvo -"

"Your information is out of date, Councillor." Now I smile directly at him. "By now, the ruler of the Grand Imperium - the man you want to rule this Empire - is Kalevar Thrang. And he will no doubt be very glad of that nominal amnesty you wish to arrange -"

And I am interrupted. J'mpok springs from his seat, his face congested with rage. His authentic reaction, indeed.

"You imbecile!" he roars at Sarv. "You dolt! You want my office, and you try to set up Kalevar Thrang as a puppet on your behalf? You are the puppet! Thrang's puppet! He would have you dancing on his strings within a week, and he would lead the Empire to ruin! You unutterable -" He clutches spasmodically at the air in his fury. "I have seen targ droppings with better sense than you!"

The Hall is filling with rancorous shouts. No one who was not already cowed by Sarv would support his proposal... and, now, those who were must realize that their only hope for survival lies in denouncing him.

Sarv's reaction... is not one I had expected. He gapes at J'mpok, he casts a worried glance around the Hall - and then he bolts for the nearest exit. I have never seen a High Councillor move so quickly.

The display of open cowardice stuns everyone, for an instant. J'mpok is first to recover. "Stop him!" he roars.

"Let him run!" I bellow, as loud as I can. "He will run to Thrang!"

J'mpok rounds on me, and for a moment I think I am dead. The floor of the Great Hall is not the wisest place to gainsay the Chancellor.... But his pragmatism kicks in, just in time to save my life. He glares at me. "Then you will pursue him," he snarls, "now!"

I raise my fist in salute. "As you order, Chancellor!"

J'mpok is staring at something else, now, and I see what - or, rather, who - it is, as we turn to go. "What are you grinning at?" he demands.

"Oh, just an idle thought." Melani D'ian's smile is bright and poisonous. "I just wondered... if the honourable Council would care to vote, now, on Councillor Sarv's proposal."

The Death House 29

Rrueo

"I'm sorry, sir," says Oschmann. "It's just that, well, he expects to see you, now."

I glare at her. "If Rrueo had another human officer to spare, Rrueo would gladly disembowel you," I tell her. "But since we must keep up this imposture -"

We are back in Oschmann's apartment, and her tame Baron is on his way to bring more tittle-tattle of the Grand Imperial court. I hope he has something useful to say. We need more information, especially in the light of recent events. Melani D'ian's informal communications channels are still open, and the last message that she passed to Shalo was... disturbing reading.

So, now, once again, I start to remove my uniform. "It's not any more pleasant for me than it is for you, sir," says Oschmann. "Dealing with the Baron, I mean."

"At least you get to keep your clothes on!" I snarl at her.

"So far," Oschmann mutters darkly.

"Do not expect Rrueo to intervene if the Baron makes demands of that nature. Rrueo is an innocent non-sapient house pet and knows nothing of such matters.... How can he be such a fool? He must know that nobody breeds hunting cats like Rrueo, by now!"

"This planet's communications infrastructure is rubbish," says Oschmann. "They don't even have a fully accessible planetary data net! Earth had one of those back in the twentieth century, but these idiots -" She sighs and runs her hand through her hair. I kick my uniform out of sight, and assume what is, by now, becoming a familiar position.

Again, a brassy fanfare sounds from the intercom, and a synthesized voice says, "Attention! Prepare for the ingress of the noble Baron Josef Chaka Guevara Foch, who honours you with his presence!"

"Oh, God," groans Oschmann. She composes her face in a pleasant expression, which belies her underlying mind-tone. I dwell on thoughts of leaping on prey and rending it.

The door opens. "Lady Cynthia!" The noble Baron's puddle of a mind is oozing with ignoble thoughts. "Charmin' to see you."

"Delighted, as always, my lord," trills Oschmann.

"And your pet, what?" The Baron steps over to me, and scratches me behind my left ear. I resist the temptation to take his hand off at the wrist. It is not easy. I force a purr, instead. "Delightful beast, what? Lots of spirit in her, eh?"

Then he turns back to Oschmann, and says, in that drawling voice which is suddenly thick with unpleasant intentions, "However, I rather think you'd better, well, put her out for the night, what? Seems to me, my lady, that matters between us need to proceed to a conclusion, don't y'think? And, well, I don't much care for the house pets watchin' me perform. M'first wife, now, she used to let her dog sleep on the bed. Puts a fellow off his stroke, that sort of thing, what?"

Even mind-blind, he must surely be able to see the tension in Oschmann's body language. I tense, myself. I do not propose to let this arrogant primitive outrage one of my officers, and be damned to the consequences -

Then the decision is taken out of my hands, as the apartment window lights up with a brilliant flash. The sound of the first explosion follows, seconds later... and by then, there have been more flashes.

"'pon my word." The Baron, distracted, wanders over to the window and peers out. "But," he says, bewilderment fogging his mind-tone, "that can't be right, can it?"

"What is it?" asks Oschmann.

"Well, now." The Baron scratches his head. "The word on the old grapevine was, Duke Thrang would be consolidatin' his position by takin' out the Grand Admiral. So, well, we were all expectin' some jolly old fireworks to kick off sometime soon. But, well, it would be a space battle, wouldn't it? But those flash-bangs, now, they're on the ground... comin' from the area of -"

It is at this point that I leap across the room, seize the Baron by the shoulder and the waistband of his trousers, and heave him face-first out of the window.

The continual rumblings of the explosions, and the distant warbling of phaser fire, do not quite drown out the sound of the crash, and the outcries, as he hits the pavement. Oschmann comes to the window and looks down. "I don't think he's dead, sir."

"A pity. But we have no time to attend to trivia." I turn and grab my clothing out from under the bed. "Thrang has let idiots like that think that he plans a challenge to this Grand Admiral. Thrang, not being an idiot, has already come to a cosy arrangement with the Grand Admiral."

"That noise is the Imperial Palace under attack," says Oschmann.

"Precisely." I shrug on my uniform tunic, and grab my wrist comm. "Rrueo to Skaldak. We are evacuating. Send the Hoh'Sus in, cloaked, under cover of the battle to make pickup. Rrueo and Oschmann."

"We're... leaving?" Oschmann says.

"We have done all we can. By tomorrow morning, Thrang will have completed his coup, and will be installed as Emperor. Our task, now, is to see that this is the only place where he is installed as Emperor."

The Death House 28

The pre-dawn light of 54 Eridani was soft and rosy, but there was nothing soft about Kalevar Thrang's expression. "Where is the ship now?" he asked.

"Unknown. Off the grid," Tharval replied. "My assumption is that the unpronouceable alien persuaded Captain Grak to go to ground with her. After our High Councillor's little misjudgement, he will have needed little persuading."

Thrang remained completely still and silent for several seconds, the only sign of life being the glittering of his eyes. "They can't have assimilated all the data yet. T'Khal and Dillan didn't have all the data. And it will take those agents time to piece together what parts they do have. They are keeping the ship and Captain Grak hidden until they're ready to make their move."

"They have quite enough pieces to make our lives difficult," Tharval said.

"But they have to fit them together. So, we have to move before then." Thrang sighed, and went to sit down on the couch. Tharval remained standing by the doorway. "Well. My plans always have an element of flexibility. It would have been nice if T'Khal and Dillan could have bought or cajoled or blackmailed a supermajority on the Council, but we still have enough clout to win a vote. Sarv will just have to make sure there are no backsliders."

"We will have to move faster. Sarv himself might be exposed, now. And J'mpok's agents are not fools, they will fit those pieces quickly. They have already fitted enough together to expose T'Khal and Dillan."

"Those two would have had to be retired anyway," said Thrang. "Still, it's annoying that it had to happen on their schedule and not mine." He stood up. "Well. That's life, isn't it? Never mind, I'll adapt -"

The harsh bleeping sound made both their heads turn. Thrang frowned, crossed the room, touched the sconce of a candleholder on one wall. A panel at head height slid aside, revealing a screen. It flashed once, and an image formed on it; the heavy grey face of a Kobali.

"General," said Thrang, with a smile that looked quite unforced. "A pleasure to hear from you."

"I doubt that you will think so in a moment, Thrang." Jhey'quar glowered from the screen. "I have news for you, and you will not care to hear it."

"I won't? I'm sorry to hear that, General. I always try to be obliging."

"And we have obliged you in return. But no longer." Jhey'quar's voice was icy with anger. "You have corrupted the last of our newborns, Thrang. My son Geterian is in custody, now, after your treatments so deranged his mind that he murdered our daughter Lilitsia -"

Behind him, Thrang heard a sort of sigh from Tharval.

"You did this, Thrang. You did this with your interrogation machines. You brought back the person my son was, and it was enough to break his mind. We do not know if he can be saved. We know that Lilitsia cannot. And how many others have you damaged, Thrang? It ends. It ends now."

"General." Thrang's voice was quite calm. "I'm sorry for your loss. You understand, I hope, that it was not my intention -"

"I do not care about your intentions!"

"Nevertheless," Thrang continued, "you have benefited from our arrangement, and I hope that we can put this behind us and go forward. Of course, in the circumstances, I'll discontinue the questioning sessions -"

"Your devices have already been destroyed, Thrang! You have no choice in the matter!"

"Nevertheless, we have an arrangement, and I hope we'll both continue to benefit from it. Working with me, you'll be able to extend the Kobali presence in this quadrant, and -"

"We can do that without your aid, Thrang. We can, and we will. I will implement my own plans from henceforward. This conversation, and our arrangement, is over." And the screen blanked out.

"Damn," said Thrang. "Damn." He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took two deep breaths. Then he opened his eyes again, and turned to Tharval. "Are you all right?"

"I -" The Lethean shook his head, slowly. "I... suppose I am. She was dead. Already. I knew that...." He shook his head again. "I am all right."

"Good," said Thrang. "We just got another push. If Jhey'quar is that angry, the chances are good he's going to do something extremely stupid, and I think we should be out of here before he does. So, we were going to have to go into high gear... now we need to go one notch higher. Call the Grand Admiral. Tell him it's time to go to war. Then call Sarv, and tell him it's time for the vote."

---

"We need more time," J'mpok said.

The nameless Lethean looked at the Chancellor, looked at the massive Gorn and the tall elegant Orion who flanked him behind his desk. "I regret, Chancellor, that I can give you no more time. My government has questions.... Important people have, or had, relatives on the Eridani moon. And the attitude of the High Council has provoked... certain reactions."

"Lethean friendship is important to our overall alliance," said Melani D'ian in calm and measured tones. "The High Council is one thing... but you are among friends here, so surely we can be reasonable together?" She smiled.

"Private assurances are one thing," said the Lethean, "but the stated will of the High Council is another."

"If we are to make the High Council see reason," said J'mpok, "we need more time." Then he snarled as the comms panel on his desk buzzed for attention. He stabbed irritably at the button. "What is it?"

"Chancellor." The voice over the comm sounded nervous. "Councillor Sarv has requested to bring a special motion before the next meeting of the Council. He has appended details... which he urges everyone to consider deeply. Including, with respect, yourself, sir."

J'mpok swore under his breath. "Transmit the documents over my data channel, and then, no calls." Behind him, S'taass pulled out a datapad from his belt, and bent his massive head over it. "No more interruptions. I hope," said J'mpok. "Now. How may we persuade you to allow us more time to act?"

"I am under pressure from my government. I speak for Lethea... and there is concern, that my voice is not heard in the Council. That concern grows with each hour that passes."

"If we can reassure you as to the state of your colony," said D'ian, "would that alleviate some of the pressure? We have agents in the vicinity of the 54 Eridani system -"

"Those agents are on the run from the High Council, as I understand it," said the Lethean. "I do not know how much weight their words would carry - and I do not see how they can operate effectively, under that burden."

"They were effective enough to dispose of two rogue Councillors," D'ian said with a smile.

"Two Councillors are not the whole of the Council. And can they tell me what has happened to our people?"

"Hrrrr." The sound S'taass made was loud and terrifying. The three others all turned their heads towards him.

"Forgive me," the Gorn said. "But I too have received my copy of Councillor Sarv's proposal. I think, Chancellor, you should read it. We should all read it."

J'mpok's eyes rolled. "Is this going to improve my mood?" he demanded.

"Oh, no," said S'taass. "Definitely not."

The Death House 27

R'j

I will admit to feeling nervous. And the sight on the screen before me is not one to calm my spirits.

"I never actually met Thrang," the Reman says. She is scowling and unlovely even by Reman standards, with hot angry eyes set into hooded sockets whose black lids shade into the pebbly grey of her skin. Her name is Heizis, and she was instrumental in thwarting Thrang's previous bid for galactic domination. "I heard him speak over the communicator, and of course I witnessed some of his plans... but the only person who spoke with him at length was my Starfleet counterpart. Admiral Pexlini." Her expression grows even sourer at that name.

"I take it this Pexlini is not accessible?" I ask.

"Doubtful. Highly doubtful. Properly speaking, I should not be speaking to you, since you are proscribed by the High Council... but that is one thing, and stopping Thrang is more important. Whatever he is doing." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "Pexlini's assessment," she says, sounding reluctant, "was that Thrang is clever, talented, and devious, but that his weak spot lies in understanding virtues. Things like trust and honour. They are closed books to him - he acts only in accord with his own perceived self-interest, and expects others to do the same. It is not much help. Thrang's genetic enhancement makes him highly intelligent - he perceives his own interests with exceptional clarity. You should not underestimate him. However... your proposed plan is consistent with Klingon honour. It may be something he has not planned for." The hot angry eyes seem to burn into me from the screen. "Do not rely on that. Thrang should not be underestimated."

"S-s-s-s-s. I will try not to make that mistake. Thank you for your assistance."

Heizis nods curtly. "Good luck," she says, and breaks the connection.

I look around the bridge. "Well. We must depend on Klingon honour, then. I can see that it is generally reliable...."

"From Thrang's lackeys on the High Council?" asks Laska tartly.

"They must be seen to act with honour. They would never retain support, otherwise. S-s-s-s-s. Let us see if we can surprise Thrang. It would be gratifying to do so...."

Weeks spent skulking around the Neutral Zone, dodging Klingon patrols while we try to piece together Thrang's plans. Now, we have something. Shalo's efforts have given us the names of blackmail victims, picked from the dead but still productive mind of Yeveus of Zorb... and my own investigations have led me to two High Councillors, who are almost certainly Thrang's men.

So now Nuru-Or is skulking, not through the Neutral Zone, but deep in the heart of Klingon territory, on the track of those two High Councillors. It helps that I know the regular patrol schedules, the sensitive areas where tachyon grids are deployed... but, frankly, I think my ship and my crew could infiltrate the Empire without that help. We are, I flatter myself, that good.

I study the Y-shaped gdorab board. Ideas are forming in my brain.

"I have a transponder contact," Siowershoe reports. I turn my head.

"Is it them?"

"Verifying now. At least the High Councillors are easy to find.... Got it. IKS qu HoS, Vo'quv class, with the personal idents of Councillors Dillan and T'Khal."

"A nice plump carrier. It would be large as a kn'yhh'drrr in our gunsights... however, we are not here for target practice. Set an intercept course."

Laska is frowning. She is concerned over this plan... but it is the best one, I think. We have two of Thrang's agents; if we deal with them, we are bound to provoke some reaction, perhaps force him to tip his hand.

Perhaps.

I spare another glance for the game board. I know my games... but Kalevar Thrang is a consummate player.

"Course laid in. Engaging." I watch the vectors change on the helm repeater. The carrier is on a leisurely course through the outskirts of an Imperial system - possibly Dillan or T'Khal might be checking on some personal property. Both are High Councillors, wealthy and honoured men. Evidently, they do not feel they are wealthy and honoured enough, and so have thrown in their lot with Thrang.

This will prove a bad decision, for them.

"Intercept in three minutes." Nuru-Or can easily outpace a lumbering carrier. I sketch in a course on the tactical console.

"Very dramatic," says Laska, with a curl of her lip.

"S-s-s-s-s. Sometimes drama is helpful," I say.

My ship slides unseen past the carrier, and slews around to face it.

"Decloak. And open hailing frequencies."

Light shifts on my bridge... and the captain of the qu HoS, whoever he might be, is no doubt surprised to find a Bird of Prey suddenly blocking his ship's path.

"Hailing," reports Siowershoe. "I have them."

"On screen."

A scarred Klingon face appears on the viewer, a surly elderly male with a grizzled beard and thinning hair. "This is Captain Grak of the IKS qu HoS. Identify yourself."

I stand. "R'j Bl'k', commanding the IKS Nuru-Or. You are carrying two members of the High Council. I am currently proscribed by the High Council." I smile without humour. "I am here to surrender."

---

They let me keep my sidearms, and Laska to accompany me, as I beam over to the carrier. So far, everything is going to plan. No doubt that will change.

I am shown to a large and empty conference room. Captain Grak is there, with a number of armed guards... and two more.

Dillan and T'Khal are the very picture of eminent High Councillors, in their decorated robes and magnificently gleaming medals. Dillan wears a permanent sneer. T'Khal's eyes are canny and calculating.

They leave it to the captain to speak. "You are surrendering?" he barks at me. He seems displeased.

"S-s-s-s-s. The High Council has questions for me, and I have answers for them. It seems reasonable to bring the two together.... However, it appears I have been misinformed."

"Misinformed?" Grak's eyebrows gather thunderously together. "Misinformed how?"

"I was told that your ship carried two honourable members of the High Council."

"It does!" He waves an exasperated hand. "Councillor Dillan and Councillor T'Khal. You can see for yourself!"

"S-s-s-s-s. Two honourable members of the Council. I do not see those. I see only a pair of cowardly blackmailers, working at the orders of the renegade Kalevar Thrang. You can hardly expect me to surrender myself to scum such as that."

I have rehearsed this speech. It is deliberately calculated to produce an effect. It gets one. T'Khal stiffens and glares, while Dillan lets loose an inarticulate roar.

"You make grave charges, for an alien and a renegade!" shouts Grak.

"S-s-s-s-s. Alien, yes. Renegade, from such as these - well, to be otherwise would impugn my honour. And that is not acceptable."

"I will take your life for this, creature," hisses T'Khal.

"Is that a denial of your crimes, Councillor? It does not seem adequate." I take a determined step towards him. "You and your life partner here travel across the Empire at the whim of Kalevar Thrang, suborning honest men and forcing them to act against their honour and judgement. I will call you to account for it. Here and now, if you wish it. One at a time, or both together." I indicate my pistols in their holsters. "I am armed. And capable, and ready."

This is what Thrang may not expect. An investigation into Dillan and T'Khal would take weeks, would be blocked at every turn by their co-conspirators... but this, a direct challenge to their honour as Klingons, must be answered here and now, or they will lose face forever. Even now, I can see a shadow of doubt creeping over Grak's face... well, he commands their ship, he must know them well by now, and I do not think he knows anything much to their credit.

Of course, there is the minor detail of surviving this. At least, I fervently hope it is a minor detail.

"I too am armed!" declares Dillan. The "life partner" thing must have needled him - it does, with some. Actually, my impression of their relationship is that Dillan is a wealthy idiot, and T'Khal remains close by his side only to smooth over his social blunders. Now, he throws open his heavy leather coat, to display the disruptor pistol riding on his hip.

"And I," says T'Khal, with a smile on his lips. "So. Both together, you say? Then we will oblige you. Third Protocol for pistol duels. Suitably modified, according to the precedent set by T'Gan, Dakoth and Karn. Set it up," he snaps at Grak.

The captain looks at all three of us with a doubtful gaze, but he steps over to a wall console, and taps out commands.

Overhead, most of the lights grow dim. Three spotlights shine down, spaced equidistantly, casting a triangle of bright patches on the floor.

"You will take your place under one light," T'Khal orders. "You will not move -"

"S-s-s-s-s. I know the Third Protocol. And the amendment you mentioned. I have fought in this manner before." I stride over to one spotlit patch, stand in the light. I flex my fingers. "I am ready."

Fuming, Dillan stomps over to another pool of light. T'Khal takes the third. "You will act as marshal of the duel," he orders Grak. He spares a disdainful glance at Laska. "You are a witness. You will witness your captain's demise, and the redemption of our honour. I am ready."

"And I," calls out Dillan.

Grak licks his lips. The security guards look on, seemingly puzzled. "You are outnumbered two to one," he says. "You are entitled to some compensatory advantage -"

"I have two guns. I have two targets. That is all I need, Captain. That, and honour - which I have defended in this manner before."

Dillan looks uncertain. T'Khal does not. He, too, is displaying a disruptor pistol.

"Stand ready," Grak orders in a hoarse voice. "The duel commences at my command. Ready.... Now!"

My hands flash to my weapons. And my eyes focus on my targets. I told them I was capable of this. If they do not know, or do not believe, that I can move and focus my eyes independently - that is their problem.

Twin blasts of polaron fire erupt from my weapons.

One bolt catches Dillan in the head, hurls him dying to the ground, his fingers still twitching on his holstered weapon.

The second bolt disintegrates into a webwork of purple lightnings, a few centimetres from T'Khal's face.

A personal shield. And I may not move from the circle of light, and it will take me too long to burn the shield down, while he has all the time in the world to draw his disruptor and kill me. I am dead.

T'Khal snarls and draws his weapon -

And the disruptor is in his hand, but it does not fire, because his hand is parting from his arm in a flash of steel and a spray of blood.

"PetaQ!" Captain Grak rams the other end of his bat'leth into T'Khal's stomach, twists, tears, and pulls it back out. "You take unfair advantage in a duel of honour! Everything she said about you was true, you pujwI' -" He slashes again at T'Khal's abdomen. Pointless, as the first wound is clearly mortal. T'Khal falls to his knees, hand on his stomach, hopelessly trying to contain the things welling out of the wound.

Grak turns away from him, folds his arms across his chest, comes to attention with a stamp of his feet. After a moment, the guards follow suit. Behind me, I hear Laska do the same.

The last thing T'Khal sees in this life is that row of condemnatory Klingon backs.

And me.

The Death House 26

"So this is how a Grand Imperial Duke lives," said Tharval. He looked around the opulently furnished room. Through the windows, the golden light of 54 Eridani shone on the wall hangings, the painting over the roaring open fireplace, the suits of armour standing on pedestals beside the door... and the couch with the half-naked figure of Kalevar Thrang reclining on it.

Thrang smiled and flexed his left arm. "Very nearly wasn't," he said with a rueful look. "The former Duke was a lot tougher than I'd expected. I wonder if there wasn't some augment blood in there. There were one hell of a lot of by-blows during the Eugenics Wars, you know."

"But you were victorious," said Tharval. "As always." He wandered over to an occasional table, and picked up a little silver statuette of a mounted knight. He turned it over in his fingers.

Thrang watched him. "Something bothering you?" he asked.

"I had not previously participated in these... sessions. As you remember," said Tharval.

Thrang sat up. "How did it go?"

"The late Subcommander Akhat was... very helpful. Dahar Master Khreg had less in the way of confidential information, but we learned a lot about what claims of honour he could make on various Great Houses. His heirs will inherit those claims, and will be - subtly encouraged - to make use of them. I have prepared a datapad with a full report."

"But something is still bothering you," Thrang said.

The Lethean turned towards him, dropping the statuette back onto the table. "Do not presume to read my mind, Thrang."

"I'm not reading your mind. Just your mood. What's bothering you?"

"Something and nothing." Tharval pulled up a chair and sat down. "One learns a certain level of respect for one's opposition, when one is engaged in intelligence work. If one knows one's opposite number, a curious relationship develops, sometimes. A co-dependency, almost an affection...."

Thrang grinned. "Tharval, you devil! Were you in love with Talisa Sheardlove?"

"Not exactly. But when the war ended, and we reached a - a personal accord -" Tharval shook his head. "My feelings are, perhaps, hard to describe. But - we became friends. We even, well, arranged matters so that if one of us had to change sides -"

"A spy's insurance policy." Thrang's voice was almost sympathetic.

"Quite. So, you may appreciate that it came as something of a shock to learn of her death... and another shock, when I met a young Kobali female named Lilitsia." Tharval's voice was quite flat.

Thrang made no reply.

"I understand, now, how you knew so much about our - arrangements," Tharval said.

Thrang was silent for another moment. Then he said, "The Kobali say their virus gives people... another chance at life. But they're also adamant that the resurrectee is a new person, newborn and not reborn. The Kobali... aren't consistent on this point. It doesn't matter to me, really... but maybe it does to you?"

"Is she the person she was?" Tharval shook his head. "I have used your devices, Thrang, and I have felt the minds of the Kobali while I did so... and I have no clear answer to that question. I... I do not think I could bear to look into this Lilitsia's mind."

"Some questions," said Thrang softly, "are best not answered. Sometimes, best not even asked."

"But sometimes they cannot be evaded," said Tharval.

"Maybe you should speak to her," said Thrang. "See what there is, of the woman you knew. Or see what there is to be seen... of the woman she is now."

"Perhaps," said Tharval. "Perhaps."

---

"Restrain him." Jhey'quar's voice was iron. Two soldiers stepped forwards, to grip the arms of the cringing Geterian.

"I did not mean it." Geterian's voice was high-pitched, ragged, his words tumbling over each other as he spoke. "I never intended - but - but - I remembered things, things that women liked, that I liked - and I thought, I thought she would like them - but she resisted, and - and -"

Jhey'quar looked down at the still form on the deck, and closed his eyes. Some of the things that Geterian had done -

"This Yeveus of Zorb was not worthy of rebirth!" somebody hissed.

Jhey'quar raised his head. "What is done, is done," he said. "And now the consequences must be faced -" He turned. "Geterian. You must be confined and examined. We must know if - if the sickness which afflicts you can be cured. If it can, we will cure you. We will cure you. Understand this. This - this thing that you have done - it came from the old part of you, the part that is gone, now, and should have stayed gone. If we can, we will take that part of you away. If we can."

He steeled himself, but Geterian was quietly weeping, was too broken to pose the obvious question - and if you cannot?

"Take him away," Jhey'quar ordered. "And... prepare our daughter Lilitsia for burial. It is a tragedy. She should have had a whole new life ahead of her." His voice hardened. "Once that is done, we will have Thrang's machinery removed from the medical bay. We have our foothold in this quadrant now, and we will work by ourselves to keep it. This - this is part of Thrang's price for his help, and it is too high a price to pay. Thrang will corrupt no more of our newborns. Destroy the machines."

The Death House 25

Shalo

"A corpse," I say.

"Precisely." R'j's face grins at me from the viewscreen. "So, we must ask ourselves, why?"

"The Kobali, of course, have a use for corpses -"

"S-s-s-s-s." She sounds exasperated. "Collected, one at a time, over interstellar distances?"

"Then the corpse must be exceptional in some way." I sit back in the command chair and consider. "Whose was it?"

"Dahar Master Khreg. I am told he took his own life, in circumstances which are susceptible to multiple interpretations."

"Khreg." I know the name - there are few people, at certain levels of Imperial society, who would not know the name. "He would have been a useful ally for Thrang's tools on the High Council - if he were alive. But, dead, all his power and influence dies with him -"

Another hiss. "Does it? I have been thinking about this, and my conclusions are... disturbing."

I raise one eyebrow. "Go on."

"The body of Khreg has been taken to the Kobali, who will presumably do what they usually do. It is not uncommon for recently revived Kobali to retain the personality and memories of their... donors... until the virus reorganizes their brains sufficiently for the new Kobali persona to become dominant."

The conclusion is not an appealing one. "You think that Khreg will be subjected to some... post-mortem interrogation?"

"That is the only conclusion that makes sense to me."

I shake my head. "The memory traces are - unreliable, at best. And the Kobali seek to integrate the resurrectees into their society as quickly as possible -"

"S-s-s-s-s. If there is one thing we know about the Kobali, it is that they will sacrifice their principles for the sake of expediency. And, given what we know of Thrang, it is entirely possible he has devised a way to make the interrogations more reliable."

"I see." I pull a sour face. "It is... plausible. As a hypothesis. And the worst thing about it is... I think I know a way to test it."

---

Masur Viransa is an Orion colony world, marginal and little regarded. It has several advantages for me, just now: it is undeniably within the Orion rather than the Klingon sphere of influence, so I can be less worried about Council enforcers; it is within easy reach of the old Neutral Zone; finally, a large part of its industrial infrastructure is owned by one particular Orion House....

"I will require some assistance on the ground," I say, as the planet swells in the viewscreen before me.

"Mercenary elements, the price on your head, will wish to claim," says Foojoy. "Of deterrence, this one's presence may be, Gral Temm warriors, the reputation of, being known."

I think it is an offer of help. "I would be glad of your assistance," I say.

"Few mercenaries are disposed to argue with the Gorn, also," says the science officer, Thraak. I nod.

"If there are idiots down there, they might believe you've got allies in the Confederacy. And Orion space is full of idiots." The hissing voice comes from Vel'sh Tek, a Breen renegade who has sought refuge in the Empire. He is right, I suppose; that enigmatic masked presence might make some people think twice. "Your aid is also welcome," I say.

"I will assign a regular security detail also," says K'Gan. He looks at the screen. "You intend to beam down in person, though?"

"Of course. It is a matter of... prestige. I must show myself to be involved - and unafraid."

"A risk," the Klingon mutters.

"But a necessary one." I check the local space traffic. Few vessels on sensors - cargo haulers, mostly, and a scattering of corvettes, most likely having their own issues with Imperial law. The sensor logs show several abrupt departures since the massive form of the Knobos appeared in the system. I key a set of commands into my console. "Transmit normal requests to orbital traffic control," I order, "and take up standard orbit at whatever coordinates they assign. Also -" I tap out one final command. "Transmit this."

There are some mystified glances. Well, it is good that my crew does not know all my contacts.... I lean back in the command chair, steeple my hands, and wait. I do not need to wait for long.

"Orbital coordinates received," says Sano from her console. "And... incoming transmission on private band three eight seven."

I smile. "On screen."

An Orion face appears on the viewer; male, bald, with craggy features swathed in a layer of fat. "General Shalo. What a joy to see you. The price on your head is... adequate, I think, for me to live in luxury for the rest of my life." He smiles. "For however many seconds that would be, if I tried to claim it."

"Juvir," I say. "Good to see you, too. How go things with the House of Zorb?"

---

Juvir's offices at the port are spacious and furnished in the best of House Zorb taste - much gold and platinum, a great deal of hanging silk, and a certain number of highly explicit paintings and statuettes. The Klingon security team look on them with some displeasure. Foojoy seems to take it all in his stride, though, and I am unable to read any expressions on Thraak's scaled face, or Tek's metal mask.

Juvir settles himself behind a vast desk of highly polished wood - not native, an expensive import. In person, Juvir is almost the stereotype of the successful Orion enforcer; nearly seven feet tall, with layers of fat concealing more layers of rock-hard muscle. He grins expansively at me as I take my seat opposite him.

"Of course, this is not a social call," he says. "I could never have that much luck. So, General, how may I assist you, and how much can you afford to pay?"

"I hope for a deep discount," I tell him. "For love of our former House."

"Ah, nostalgia!" Juvir says. "Those dear dead days past recall. The House of Sinoom, alas, is no more. We have all had to make our own way in the galaxy.... I have prospered, modestly." He waves one massive hand, taking in the room and its furnishings with the gesture. "As you see. I have not risen so high as you, with your General's commission, your mighty warship, your numerous privateering contracts -"

"My proscription by the High Council," I add.

"A detail. I am sure you will attend to it, when it suits you." His eyes narrow slightly. Juvir is loud, brash, slightly comical... and never stupid. "So what brings you to my humble abode? Surely not the urge to reminisce."

I smile. "It is as I said to you. I would know how things stand with the House of Zorb."

Juvir purses his lips, and nods. "Things stand well enough."

"Even with your recent tragic loss?"

Juvir's expression changes to a sly smile. "I would not call the demise of Yeveus exactly tragic," he says.

"Inconvenient, though, surely?"

"Ah." Now, he wears a calculating look. "I would have expected - some inconvenience, yes. Yeveus was a secretive man, and when he died, he took with him passwords and secret accounts and such... but, it turned out, not so many of those; we received data, bypasses for biometric keys and so forth. His various business enterprises... passed smoothly into other hands. It was fortunate that he thought so far ahead."

"As if, perhaps, he expected to die?" I ask. "And made preparations for a smooth transition beforehand?"

Juvir's expansive humour is gone from his face entirely now. He is thinking. That is good. "It... could have been. But he showed no signs, before it happened, that he was... unduly preoccupied with death. There had been no threats against him - well, nothing beyond the normal run of things." His little dark eyes are fixed on my face. "Is that what you believe? That he expected death?"

"Candidly," I say, "no, it is not."

He raises one eyebrow. "Then, enlighten me, General. What do you believe?"

I brought a datapad with me; now, I skim it over the polished desktop towards Juvir. "There is a date there," I say, "a standardized Klingon stardate. I would know, Juvir, whether any of your instructions from Yeveus were received after that date."

"House records," says Juvir. "Highly confidential...."

"And therefore highly expensive. But I do not need to know what the instructions were... only when they were given."

He frowns. He touches some control beneath the desktop, and a section of wood slides away, to reveal a computer console. "You have some reason for asking," he says.

"A good one, and an urgent one. I will say this much," I add, "you need to know the answer, too, though you may not know why, yet."

"I think I will indulge you," says Juvir. He types rapidly on the console's interface for a moment. He takes pains to shield his movements from my gaze - well, I cannot fault him for that, security is a good habit to cultivate. "Converting from our local calendar to standard Imperial stardates... yes...." He frowns at the screen. "Yeveus's personal accounts were unlocked... some fifteen days after that date. Local days. I could convert to Imperial reckoning -"

"The details are not necessary. Anything else?"

"Biometric data was added, enabling us to unlock and decrypt his secure personal archives."

"Containing enough blackmail material to have a half-dozen High Councillors executed, I imagine," I say. "No, you do not need to confirm or deny it. You merely need to be aware of something." I reach out, tap my fingernail against the datapad. "If you convert that date to your local calendar... you will find it is the date of Yeveus's death."

Juvir stares at me. "It can be verified easily enough," I say.

Juvir's big face is slowly draining of colour. "But - the codes, the personal codes - and they were verified by biometric data -"

"Yes. Fairly quickly, I should imagine, while Yeveus's biometric data was still his own." Before the stolen body became too Kobali to be useful to them any longer. "The measurement of dates in an interstellar culture is... always a little complicated," I muse, aloud. "You cannot be faulted for overlooking this detail."

"Detail? Detail? The House's security has been breached! Our deepest secrets could be known to - to -"

"The Federation? The Tal Shiar? Imperial Intelligence? Worse than any of those," I say cheerfully. "The House of Zorb has been giving up its darkest secrets, its most desirable information, to a rogue human augment called Kalevar Thrang."

"Thrang," Juvir whispers. "I have heard that name." Then his big head snaps around. "What was that?"

A noise. An indistinct sound, from the corridor outside. It could be nothing, of course, but I am disposed to act... otherwise. "Stand ready," I say to my team in conversational tones, and I stand, and draw my weapon. A Romulan plasma repeater pistol, liberated from an Imperial Navy officer who had no further use for it. "I wonder if we have been indiscreet?" I say.

Juvir's face darkens with rage as he stands. There is a scuffling noise in the corridor beyond -

The door hisses open, and something flies through. With a roar, Juvir flips the desk over, so that it crashes down on the object. The blast of the concussion grenade is muted, though Juvir's desktop will need more than a little polish to put it right again. Men are charging through the doorway -

I aim at the first one, and the gun yammers in my hand, sending out bolt after bolt of blazing plasma, burning through his personal shield, then through his body. The Klingon troopers have drawn their bat'leths, good weapons for this close-quarter fighting. The CRM 200 is less ideal - but Tek uses it, nonetheless, strafing our attackers with bolts of absolute cold. Foojoy has a disruptor in one fist, a knife in the other, and is using both with sudden savagery. Thraak is using nothing but his claws.

Another one comes at me. Orion, again, no doubt part of the House of Zorb's security. He is holding a disruptor; I lash out with my foot, kicking it from his hand. I spin around, carried by the momentum of the kick, and slam my gun into the side of his head. He stumbles, but does not fall.

Then he is wrapped in a crackling web of blue light, and his personal shield blows out, and he screams. Juvir has produced a Ferengi energy whip from somewhere; he strikes with it again, sending out another blast of electricity. The man falls, then.

The rest of our attackers - are down. Some of them groaning or whimpering, others very silent.

"You should have this office swept for bugs," I say to Juvir.

"I do," he growls. "Regularly." He comes to stand beside me, looks down at the twitching shape of the man he felled with the energy whip. "This is Aksour, my chief of security, who carries out the checks. At least, I thought he was my chief of security -"

Aksour's eyelids flutter; he is starting to regain consciousness. I take careful aim. When he opens those eyes, the first thing he will see is the business end of my pistol. Perhaps it will be the last, too.

"Well," I say, "he is definitely yours, now." Aksour's eyes open. "I think we have some questions for you, my friend," I purr. "And I know you will answer them."

The Death House 24

"So this is where the magic happens," said Tharval.

The Kobali medical tech looked up from the stasis pod. "It can happen anywhere," he said. "Of course, it is best if the virus is introduced in a controlled situation... if the newborn is enabled to make a full recovery under medical supervision, to ease the stress of entry into our society."

He pressed a hypospray to the throat of the corpse that had been Dahar Master Khreg.

"Introducing a heavy viral load makes the transition quicker and easier," he continued, "but, of course, infection may come about anywhere, by all manner of methods. The virus is... surprisingly resilient." He shook his head. "That can cause problems in itself. Accidental infection.... We cannot always track the newborns created by accident. Can you imagine their pain? To be reborn as Kobali, but not to know who the Kobali are, how we live - how to be Kobali?"

"It must be distressing," said Tharval absently. He leaned forwards, inspecting Khreg's corpse. "How long before revitalization begins?"

"It has already begun, at the cellular level. It will take time before we see actual responses. There are many factors. Klingons are strong and resilient, and that makes for a quicker transition... but this one died from a most effective poison, and that must be purged from the system before the body's metabolism can begin anew."

Tharval's face contorted in what might have been a smile. "Forgive me. I really must quell my urges for immediate gratification. It will be days, I gather, before this... new person... is ready for the, ahh, the procedure?"

The medical tech's back stiffened. "It will. And I must say, I do not approve of this procedure."

"On purely medical grounds, no doubt," said Tharval. "And, on purely medical grounds, I'm sure you're right. But sometimes even medicine has to give way to... practicality."

"The General has given orders to cooperate with Thrang. I will not gainsay him." The tech sighed. "My approval, or disapproval, is not relevant."

"I understand your frustrations," said Tharval. "However. I, too, have my orders. There is another one ready for me, I understand?"

"Lisian. He is in your special facility already." The tech indicated a door at the far end of Ostigon's sickbay, a door marked with warning sigils and blocked by the shimmer of a force field.

"You've locked him in? Very security-conscious of you." Tharval strolled up to the door, put his hand on the scanner beside it. There was a momentary pause, and then the scanner glowed green and the field vanished with a pop. Tharval turned back to the tech. "I've been given full instructions. I won't need you."

"I do not know what goes on in that room," said the tech. "I only see the effects on our newborns." Tharval could feel the resentment bubbling in his mind. The Lethean paid no attention, as he stepped through the door and checked it was sealed behind him.

Inside, a Kobali was lying on a couch, his head enclosed in the scan module of the modified psychotricorder. "Greetings," said Tharval, feeling nervousness radiate from the subject. "I'm here on behalf of Kalevar Thrang - do you know the name?"

"I have heard of him." The Kobali's voice was muffled by the metal cage surrounding his head.

"There's no need to be concerned," said Tharval. "This is just a scan - you won't feel a thing. I will need to administer a mild hypnotic, just to put you in a receptive frame of mind. You don't mind, I hope?"

"I have given consent." The Kobali still sounded dubious. Tharval noted the couch's built-in restraints, discreetly concealed at the moment - but the flick of a single switch would make the test subject's consent a matter of indifference. He walked around the couch, to the controls of the psychotricorder. A hypospray lay beside the console; he picked it up, checked the dosage, applied it to the Kobali's neck.

"There. Not so painful, was it?"

"No...." The stuff was fast acting; that was good.

"Just relax." Tharval touched the controls of the device. Wave forms danced across the display screen; the activity patterns of the six-lobed Kobali brain.

"What's your name?"

"Lisian." The Kobali's voice was slurred. Tharval touched another control. His eyes narrowed as he reached out with his own psionic talent, feeling Lisian's mind turn dull and foggy. The patterns on the screen were slower and weaker, now.

"And what do you do?"

"Assigned to... engineering. Work on... warp core... with Sector Intelligence... no...."

Tharval's fingers moved delicately on the controls. "What's your name?"

"Lisian...?"

"And what do you do?"

"Warp core...."

Thrang had been quite specific in his instructions... and Tharval understood what was being attempted, too. His psionic sense tingled. It was like watching a sunken continent rising again from the deeps, he thought. A shadow, looming out of vagueness, details gradually resolving... ruined buildings, eroded by time, encrusted with weeds and corals... but still visible, still there, underneath the ocean waters of the Kobali mind.

Within the cage of the scanner module, lights began to glow: scanning beams, probing the Kobali's brain, mapping the neural circuits, stimulating precise points.

"What's your name?"

"Lisi... no...." The voice was different, subtly. Deeper and rougher, perhaps.

"What's your name?"

"Akhat i-Tellasor tr'Kandran."

"Thank you, Subcommander." Tharval's tone was brisk and official, now. "You were on a deep-penetration mission in Klingon space. You were involved in an accident."

"Accident. Yes. I remember - explosion -"

"You were seriously injured, Subcommander Akhat. You were lucky to survive. But you did not have time to deliver your report, Subcommander. It is vitally necessary that you make a complete report."

"I remember.... Authorization. Need authorization. Clearance codes."

Tharval bared his teeth. Too much of the original personality was bleeding through, along with the memories he needed. He made adjustments to the controls. "This is a matter of urgency, Subcommander. I do not have direct communications with the Tal Shiar. You must present your report verbally, to me, now." Lines of light spiked across the display. Tharval's fingers moved on the controls, gently, coaxingly. "I know it is irregular, but the matter is urgent. Your report, Subcommander Akhat. We must have it."

The Kobali's whole body twitched and shuddered, as if he was fighting some internal battle. Then he began to speak.

---

Hours later, Tharval stepped out of the room. The medical tech was still there, hunched over the stasis pod containing Khreg's body.

"He's sleeping it off. All very satisfactory." He savoured the tech's sullen, unspoken response. He went to the stasis pod and peered through the transparent canopy. Khreg's face was greyish, already, and the ridges on his forehead seemed to be shallower. "Progress?"

"As you see," said the tech. "It will be many more hours before this new person awakens."

"Well, I can wait. General Jhey'quar has been generous with his hospitality. I'll go to my guest quarters and rest for a while." He found he couldn't resist a quick barb. "Thank you so much for all you're doing for us." And he walked out of the sickbay before the tech could frame a response.

He paused for a moment in the corridor outside, getting his bearings. The modified Samsar-class cruiser was a big ship, and he was unfamiliar with its internal layout. Still, he had come to the sickbay from the guest quarters, so all he needed to do was to retrace his steps -

A black-clad figure passed by him in the corridor, and his eyes widened.

"Excuse me," he said. The Kobali did not respond. "Excuse me!" he called out, louder.

She turned and looked at him with cold, lilac-coloured eyes. She was slim, and tall, and her face had a curiously composed look about it. "May I be of assistance?" she asked.

Tharval stared for a moment. "Forgive me," he said. "It's just - have we met?"

The Kobali woman frowned. "I do not believe so," she said, and Tharval could see in her mind that she spoke the truth. "You are Kalevar Thrang's associate, I gather?"

"I am." His voice was flat with sudden disappointment.

"We are, of course, grateful for Thrang's - efforts - on our behalf. How may I help you?"

Tharval shook his head. "I do not think you can. I - I thought you were someone else. A mistake on my part." Though she had been someone else. And he thought he knew who. "May I ask your name?"

"I am Hanchon Lilitsia." Her eyes were still cold. "Will there be anything else?"

"No. I apologize for my error."

"Then I must be about my duties." And she turned and walked unhurriedly away. Tharval's gaze followed her down the corridor, until she reached the end, turned the corner, and vanished from his sight.